by Mike Hogan
Lestrade pursed his lips, pulled out his handkerchief and blew his nose loudly.
Doctor Purchase bounded out from behind his desk.
“Come, then, sirs, and you may view the remains. We can then speak of my conclusions.”
“The boys may stay here,” I said.
“But, Doctor,” said Wiggins. “I’m the one what knows Aaron!”
“Do you then?” Lestrade gave him a narrow-eyed look. “Come along the lot of you. I don’t want you out of my sight.”
We followed the coroner along several corridors, down a flight of steps and through a pair of double doors marked ‘Mortuary’ in green letters. The temperature dropped as we entered a large white-tiled room. Wall-mounted and hanging gas jets lit the room as brightly as a butcher’s shop. Along one wall was a framework of polished wood in which rows of metal doors were set. A handwritten notice hung on one: ‘Bodies Feet First If You Please’.
A row of five dissecting tables occupied the centre of the room, each with a nude body laid out on it. At the farthest bench, two young men in white coats were at work on the corpse of an old man. Aaron’s body was on the first bench, the only Negro. He lay face down; even from a distance, I could see that the back of his head had been laid open by what must have been a tremendous blow or blows. I took out my handkerchief and held it over my nose in a vain effort to mask the penetrating odour of decay.
“It is quite five or six degrees cooler in here than outside,” I said.
“Yes,” said the coroner. “We have a patent system of steam-driven fans that blow air over blocks of American ice. The Indian railways used the system first, without the fans. They stored the ice in louvred boxes and air passed over it with the motion of the train. I am afraid that the record temperatures these last few days have overwhelmed us, and we are not coping as well as we might. Help me turn him over. Just hold his head.”
I rolled up my sleeves and held the young man’s head as Doctor Purchase turned the body onto its back with practised ease.
He beckoned the boys forward.
“Which of you can confirm this young man’s identity?”
Wiggins stepped forward reluctantly and stared down at the face for a long minute.
“Can I see his hands, sir? Just the left one.”
The coroner held up the left arm and Wiggins peered closely at it.
“Well, boy?” said Lestrade.
Wiggins shook his head. “That’s not Aaron, Doctor Watson,” he said. “I’d stake my life on it.”
Impulsive and Violent Behaviour
We assembled back in the coroner’s office.
Lestrade poked a bony finger at Wiggins.
“Another boy, a pickpocketing young rascal, identified him as Aaron no-middle-or-family-name, last seen in Lambeth. Now you say nay. What’s your game, then, eh?”
Wiggins turned to me.
“He’s like him, Doctor, but that’s not him. Aaron had a cut across his left hand. A long scar from when he played with a knife and got cut, accidental, like.”
Lestrade snorted. “What about this, eh?”
He waved a crumpled photograph about the size of a playing card in front of Wiggins face.
“This was in the victim’s pocket. Again, a positive identification from the dipper for an American boy named Bobby no-family-name, last seen in Lambeth in the company of the Negro Aaron. What have you got to say to that?”
“Never saw him before in my life, Inspector,” said Wiggins.
“Well, Doctor,” said Lestrade, turning his sharp nose to me. “You’ve got me out here on a wild-goose chase and wasted this gentleman’s valuable time. I shall bid you good day.”
He jammed the photograph back into his pocket and made for the door. He stopped and pointed at the three boys deliberately one-by-one.
“I’ve got my eye on you lot,” he growled. “So you just watch it.”
He tipped his hat to the coroner and left.
“I am very much persuaded,” said Doctor Purchase as the inspector’s footsteps echoed down the corridor. “I am almost certain that this area of the brain is the organ for impulsive and violent behaviour.”
He tapped a blank area on the forehead of the head on his desk.
“It was prominent on the inspector’s skull, as you will have instantly noticed.”
He laughed. It was a most infectious laugh, and I, and the boys, chuckled with him.
He gave the head an affectionate pat. “All nonsense, of course. Now, what’s all this about?”
Wiggins looked down at his toes.
“Quid pro quo, young man,” said Doctor Purchase. “I will tell you what I know, and you may tell me your thoughts, or not, as you please.”
Wiggins nodded agreement.
“According to witness statements that I have obtained from the files of the local police,” Doctor Purchase continued, “the young man was killed last night at about a quarter past midnight. Four dock labourers, just off their shift, had each picked up a pint of ale at the bar of the Grapes public house, on the River in Narrow Street, Limehouse. They decided to sup their beer on the terrace overlooking the tideway. They had hardly taken their first gulp when they heard a cry and a splash from a short way upstream. Looking down, they saw a man in the water at the edge by the steps. Thinking he had fallen in drunk, they had a laugh at his expense, took another sup, then they ran down and hauled him out. He was wet, but not thoroughly soaked, so he had been in the water just a few moments. That accords with the cry and the splash. When they saw his terrible wound on his head they knew that they had a corpse on their hands. They called the potboy, who called the landlord, who sprang his police rattle and summoned a constable. Tea?”
Doctor Purchase opened the door of his office a crack and called out for tea. An answering cry came from within the building.
“Now,” he said. “You, young man, Wiggins, is it? Would you stand here in the centre of the room? You are about five-one or two, I would guess.”
Wiggins shrugged.
“You’ll do for the dead man. And you, Doctor, stand a pace behind, thank you. Swing your stick, Doctor, against the boy’s head so that the blow lies from above and behind the right ear down to just below the left ear. No? It is awkward, is it not? Try your left hand. You see? Thank you both. Here is tea already; it must have been brewing.”
A young clerk brought in a tray of tea and biscuits. Doctor Purchase teased him about his fancy tiepin, and the man replied in kind. That was not the atmosphere I had expected in a mortuary.
“The police searched the houses on the riverbank adjacent to the Grapes and found nothing,” said Doctor Purchase reading from his notes. “The house next door was empty; the tenant moved out a week earlier. Next along was a failed hurdy-gurdy manufactory, and then a sisal warehouse; both were securely locked and showing no sign of forced entry.”
He opened a cupboard and brought out a whisky bottle.
“Would anyone care for a little fortification?”
Wiggins offered his cup; I stared Churchill and Billy into submission.
“The attacker was left-handed,” I said. “And my height or so.”
“Mutton-chops was left-handed,” said Wiggins. “He gave me the fiver in his left hand.”
Doctor Purchase looked up at me and smiled.
I described the facts of the case, the nature of the involvement of Holmes and myself as private investigators, and our suspicions.
Doctor Purchase mulled this over while we drank our tea.
“And our man is not your Aaron,” he said. “You are certain, Master Wiggins?”
“Certain sure, sir. I knew when I set eyes on him. He is like Aaron though, very like; maybe a relation, but it is not him. He’s an older-looking lad. The boy in the photograph was Bobby, but I did
n’t want the inspector to tag me in the case, so I lied.”
He lowered in head in patently false contrition.
“I see,” said Doctor Purchase. “Why did you also lie about the knife scar?”
Wiggins jumped up.
“I never.”
Doctor Purchase chuckled. “You saw immediately that the body was not your friend, yet you asked to look at the left hand. You stared not at the palm, where you claim there is a scar, but at the finger ends, at the nails. You noticed a yellow discoloration there, under the nails. It was much more pronounced before we washed the body. We found yellow marks on his arms, and spots in his hair too. I have not yet analysed the substance, but I am sure it is water-based paint. Was he a painter?”
Wiggins looked across at me, to the coroner and then to Billy.
“He was a canary painter,” said Billy.
Doctor Purchase beamed at me.
“You must find this detective business enthralling, Doctor,” he said with a chuckle. “I guessed that he might be a house painter, although the yellow is a startling one and I could not imagine it on my walls. The true answer is much more exotic.”
“I do not understand,” I admitted. “Do you, Churchill?”
Churchill shook his head.
“When you buy a canary,” said Billy, “you look for two things: colour and chirpy singing. Some folks like red birds, but yellow is the fashion now; bright yellow is all people want. The yellow birds are hard to get wholesale, and expensive, so the trade makes them up.”
“The canaries are painted!” I said in astonishment.
“The factory is down my way in Whitechapel,” said Billy. “That’s where that bloke worked, I bet.”
I looked at my watch.
“Coroner,” I said. “We must leave you. We have another appointment. I cannot thank you enough for your help. That is not our friend on your slab, but I have not the slightest doubt that his death is related to the case. The photograph of the young American boy found in his pocket is conclusive.”
Doctor Purchase stood and shook our hands. He tapped the folder on his desk.
“I will make a note of what we have discussed today. If you have any information as to the identity of the young man, I would be grateful if you could communicate it to me. As coroner, I am legally obliged to pass on anything I learn to the police. Inspector Lestrade seems reluctant to proceed in the case, so I will continue to work with my local people; they are very manageable.”
“Thank you, Doctor.”
We took our leave and the coroner was kind enough to show us to the front door.
“À bientôt!” called Doctor Purchase as we tumbled into a cab.
Wiggins gave me a puzzled look.
“It means ‘See you soon’, in French,” Churchill explained with a chuckle.
“Gawd,” said Wiggins looking back. “I bleeding hope not.”
I smiled at him. “I have a job for you.”
6. The Cape Colonial Visitor
A Mexican Standoff
We dropped Wiggins off at a ferry pier on the River and made our way back to Baker Street. I sent Billy to the back kitchen to help with chicken plucking, potato peeling, and vegetable scraping. I intended to cook a pair of roast chickens with all the trimmings for our early dinner, followed by bergamot pears and hothouse apricots in red wine. I knocked on the door of Mrs Hudson’s sitting room. Churchill followed me in.
I found her sitting on her sofa, pale, but bright-eyed, reading Tit-Bits and eating Turkish delight. Bessie poured tea. I was glad to find that my patient continued to make an excellent recovery from the poison that almost killed her.
“Oh, sir,” said Bessie. “You must speak to Mrs Hudson. She insists on getting up to make the supper.”
“I am perfectly fine,” said Mrs Hudson firmly. “Oh dear, young sir,” she said catching sight of Churchill. “I do hope that your lady mother wasn’t troubled by those old green curtains. I’m sure I didn’t mean any harm.”
She dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief.
“No, Mrs Hudson,” said Churchill with a smile. “Mama is very well.”
Mrs Hudson looked up at me over her handkerchief and narrowed her eyes.
“I don’t know, then, Doctor,” she said. “Maybe Mr Philpot wasn’t so wrong. Maybe I was the victim of a miasma, and a good pair of flock curtains bought by my mother at a respectable establishment in the London Road for eight pence farthing a yard was sacrificed in error. Yes, in error, Doctor, and at a cost of a pound or more, not counting nearly two pounds in expenses to the police and the street riffraff. What do you say to that, sir?”
“I’ll leave you to rest, Mrs Hudson. Drink your beef tea and your barley water.”
I nodded to Churchill. “Come, let us go upstairs. We have some preparations to make for our visitor.”
The clock in our sitting room struck seven as we finished our dinner. Bessie brought coffee and cleared the table.
“How was dinner, Bessie?” I asked as I lit a cigar. “I hope that Mrs Hudson, you and Billy enjoyed the roast chicken as much as Churchill and I did.”
“It was nice, sir, very tasty.”
“And what had Mrs Hudson to say?”
“She said that you forgot to butter the carrots, Doctor.”
Churchill chuckled, which set Bessie off giggling. I strode to the window and looked down on the grey street below and across to the grey houses opposite. I could not readily share their simple mirth. I wondered what chance we had of finding Bobby and his friend in a city teeming with four million or more people, each intent on his or her own occasions and without thought for their neighbours.
I had taken the Metropolitan Line underground railway from Baker Street a few weeks earlier, and I was surprised at the way Londoners had adapted to the dreadful conditions of heat and smoke that prevailed in its tunnels. We endured and ignored each other. On an omnibus, one nodded to one’s neighbour. On the Metropolitan Line one tried to read one’s paper in the flickering lamplight, gasped for breath in the fug of engine and cigar smoke, and emerged into the light covered in sooty smuts.
“I wonder how Holmes is getting on with his case,” I said softly. “He missed dinner.”
“And how Wiggins is getting on in Limehouse,” said Churchill.
I nodded. “We will soon know. Bezique, Churchill? We have an hour, if the Fates allow, before our appointment.”
At a quarter to the hour of eight, I made my final preparations. I wondered again whether I should have wired to fetch Inspector Lestrade to Baker Street. I reminded myself that he had complained when I brought him to the coroner’s office on what he called a wild-goose chase. I did not feel justified in calling him out again when I was not certain that my plan would succeed in beating our bird from cover.
“If I had a guinea, Doctor,” said Churchill in an imitation of Holmes’s parlour trick. “I’d bet that he would come.”
“If so,” I said severely, “you will immediately hide yourself in Holmes’s bedroom and make not a squeak of noise. Is that understood, young man? Or I shall pack you off back to your parents in Connaught Place this instant.”
Churchill nodded reluctantly.
“But I may come out when he is in the derbies, mayn’t, I?”
I heard a squeal of carriage wheels against the kerb outside. I flicked aside the curtains and looked down. A heavyset man in a sandy-coloured coat and flaming red mutton-chop whiskers alighted from a cab. The doorbell rang.
I was pleased to see that Churchill had retreated to his hiding place. I checked the action of my service revolver and slipped it back into my waistband. I drew the lapels of my frock coat together to hide it.
Billy showed in my visitor. The man surveyed the room calmly as he gave his bowler, heavy stick and gloves to the boy wi
th his left hand. He was taller than I, well over six feet, and powerfully built. He was perhaps in his late fifties. His red mutton-chop whiskers framed a square head and a much-seamed and wrinkled face with a ruddy, brown complexion.
He crossed the room and held out his hand.
“Maxwell P Taylor, at your service, sir,” he said in a strong Cape Colony accent.
“Doctor John Watson. Please take a seat.”
I indicated our sofa, but he sat instead in Holmes’s usual armchair. I sat opposite him, and as I did, my coat fell open.
“That’s a piece of artillery you have there, Doctor. It outranks mine by a wide margin.” He pulled open the right lapel of his coat to reveal a small shoulder holster. He took out a two-barrel palm pistol and laid it on the table. “That’s what we in the United States call a ‘Derringer’ after the inventor.”
“You are from the United States, Mr Taylor?” I asked.
“No, I am English, by birth if not inclination. I was born in London. As you can likely hear from my accent, I grew up among the Boers in Natal. I have lived the last several years in America, in business, and I came back to the old country to put my son to school and to spend my declining years in comfort at my place of birth. I am not a Boer, you understand, but I have little experience in the ways of Englishmen.”
He sat back.
“And you, Doctor, placed an advertisement in the evening papers concerning the whereabouts of Robert W Taylor and the servant, Aaron Long. Anyone who wanted news of them was to come here at eight. I see that I am your only customer, sir. Unless another party has been in touch with you.”
He leant forward in his seat.
“Has anyone else contacted you?”
“No.”
“I see. Then, may I ask what information you have? You should know that I am willing to pay handsomely for any information that helps me find the boy. May I?”
He drew out a cigar case and indicated a large cigar. He lit it with a match.
